I’ve learned that I’m happier and smarter if I make time to go for walks outside, most weeks. The theoretical promise of being my own boss is that I control my schedule. (The actual practice is that a tyrannical perfectionist is quick to accuse me of indolence if I leave a project before it’s finished, and of course things are rarely “finished” — so, like so many of my clients, I’m constantly negotiating my work boundaries).
This week I’ve taken a special interest in ferns. We’ve had our first frost, but days have been warm. Some ferns have already curled and withered for the winter. Others have turned to gold. It wouldn’t occur to the golden ferns to feel smug, nor the withered ferns to feel ashamed, about their particular microclimate.
If I could wave a wand, I’d offer my clients the reassurance that everyone blossoms, everyone turns to gold, and everyone withers in their career. Lots of times, for most of us.
Nature knows it’s not a race. The evergreens, who never shed their leaves in winter, don’t grow taller or faster than the oaks, who do.
